


Dead in the Water

by theorchardofbones



Series: Zine Contributions [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Espionage, Ever At Your Side Zine, Gen, Mishaps, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 11:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20389273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: Things go wrong on a mission in Niflheim, and Cor is forced to learn to rely on others for once.





	Dead in the Water

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the FFXV friendship zine [Ever At Your Side!](https://twitter.com/atyoursidezine)

Gladiolus’s laughter is deafening as he and Ignis regale the table with tales of their colourful induction into the Crownsguard.

Cor watches from his corner, quietly sipping beer. He has stories to tell, sure — but he’s never been much of a talker.

“Sounds like Operation Snowshoe,” Monica says.

Cor scoffs.

“You and I must be thinking of something  _ very _ different.”

They’re speaking quietly — low enough that their words don’t travel across the table — but Prompto’s nearby, and he perks up instantly.

“What’s Operation Snowshoe?”

“Not sure this is the place for discussing covert ops,” Cor says dryly.

“They’ve all got the clearance.”

He doesn’t like the tone in Monica’s voice, or the smirk she wears. She might be renowned throughout the Crownsguard — and beyond — for being a solid leader and an excellent cook, but nobody knows her quite like he does.

Prompto leans forward on his elbows. Soon he’ll whip out the puppy dog eyes.

Cor’s lips are sealed. Lifting his beer, he shoots Monica a look over the brim of his glass.

“It was cold,” he says. “Mission didn’t go as planned.”

There’s quiet around the table. The others are listening now, drinks forgotten.

“Ain’t that how you got that nasty scar on your shoulder?” Gladiolus says.

Even now — years-old, long healed — it itches under Cor’s shirt. He shifts uncomfortably in memory of the burn of the bullet, the Niflian snow.

“You nearly lost that arm.”

Monica’s smile is elusive.

Half a dozen pairs of eyes turn towards her.

“What happened?” Prompto asks innocently.

“Well.”

Monica sets aside her drink, perching her elbows on the table.

“We’d been undercover for weeks. All good — till the truck cut out in the middle of nowhere. Had to hike for miles to the nearest bar to use the phone. Could’ve frozen the plains of Leide with the stares the locals gave us. Thought we were out of the woods once the recovery truck came by.”

Cor sighs.

“Far from it.”

Monica gives a wry smile.

“Not even close.”

* * *

The driver of the tow truck was a man of few words. He turned the hot air up high while they rode up front; soon the aching cold thawed from Cor’s hands.

It all had him on edge — their pickup breaking down, hoofing it until they’d found someplace open. Inside, it’d felt like every set of eyes had been on them. Their dark hair had screamed  _ Lucian _ in a room full of liquored-up Niffs.

Fifteen minutes they’d waited: sipping beers, keeping to themselves. Fifteen minutes too many.

It was late, so they were looking at the following afternoon before their truck was on the road. Cor didn’t like sticking around any longer than they had to. Wasn’t like they had a choice.

“Cosy.”

Monica was droll on the best of days; it was tough to tell if she was serious or not. Where she sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight, the arch of her eyebrow told him everything.

It wasn’t so much a motel as a strip of units behind the truck stop, perfect for long-haul drivers to rest weary eyes. It was quiet — no lights on in the other units. Cor wasn’t sure if he was glad for the privacy, or if the stillness made him uneasy.

“Sooner we get out of here, the better,” he muttered. “Didn’t care for the way they were watching us in that bar.”

“I don’t think they liked the look of us, either. We were tailed.”

Cor’s stomach dropped. Maybe his eyelids had drooped once or twice along the journey, but he’d thought he was alert.

“You’re certain, ma’am?”

She nodded.

“They were good. Kept their distance. I’m thinking the patrons of Lucky’s tipped them off.”

A melting pot of discomfort and fear swirled in Cor’s gut, roiling and seething.

“Get some sleep,” Monica said. “We’ll grease the mechanic’s palm in the morning and see if we can’t get on the road sooner.”

* * *

It felt like Cor barely slept a wink. His mind would finally quieten down, his limbs relaxing, and as his eyes grew heavy some tiny sound would jolt him awake.

At times, he’d glance at Monica to find her on her side, shoulders rising and falling in sleep; others, she’d be sitting up, her back to him as she watched the door.

He must have dozed off — when he woke, the light filtering through the blinds was grey with the dawn.

Beyond Monica’s bed, the door handle rattled.

“Ma’am—”

_ “Sssh.” _

He waited.

When the door opened, the noise of the lock disengaging was like a gunshot.

The intruders, though, were silent. The floorboards barely creaked beneath them as they swept the room, one checking the bathroom, another approaching Monica’s bed. The last approached Cor. He could feel his heartbeat ramping up with each step.

He and Monica were two-on-three — outnumbered, outgunned.

The barrel of a gun pressed to the back of Cor’s head, cold and solid.

“Leonis!”

Monica’s voice awoke some raw instinct within him. He twisted, lashing out, caught the attacker’s arm — but not before the gun went off, almost deafening him. Pain tore through his shoulder, but adrenaline won out. He kicked the covers off, shoved his knee into his assailant’s stomach.

A gunshot rang out — the glass in the window splintered — and as his opponent slammed a fist into his injured shoulder he could just hear Monica yelling over the scuffle.

_ “Run!” _

He flipped himself over the bed, tumbling, landing hard on the floor; picked himself up in time to dodge around one of the intruders before she realised he was there. Another shot rang out, and he had no time to register who or what it’d hit as he sprinted for the door, Monica close behind him.

* * *

Gods, it was  _ cold —  _ the kind of chill that lingered in your bones for days. No guns, no radios, no rations. They were dead in the water.

Monica had tended to his wound as best she could. There wasn’t a lot she could do with strips of clothing torn into bandages.

What Cor wouldn’t give for a drink.

“We’ve got to keep going, Leonis.”

He was falling behind. Legs dragging, wilting from the blood loss and pain. He wouldn’t have made it this far if Monica hadn’t pulled him.

“Leave me behind,” he said, through gritted teeth. “I’m slowing you down.”

Her answering laugh was humourless.

“This isn’t a movie, Leonis. We’re getting out of here — both of us.”

Easier said than done. His good arm was out of commission, they had nothing better than combat knives to defend themselves, and he’d bet all his material wealth that their assailants were closing in.

They’d slept in their outerwear, and he was glad for the warmth — but the black of their parkas stood out like beacons in the snow.

“We head for Gralea,” Monica said. “Find some new clothes. Get lost in the crowd.”

“All due respect, ma’am, but the city’s days away. I won’t make it.”

Her pace slowed, the only indication anything was wrong. Her face was turned from him, but he could imagine her grim expression.

“Ma’am.”

She ignored him, plunging onward — too fast to keep up. The ground swam towards him, and he just managed to reach for the trunk of a tree before swooning against it.

“Monica.”

Sighing, she turned around. The look in her eyes said she knew what he was about to say.

“You’ll make it without me holding you back,” he said. “I’ll distract them — lead them off.”

“Leonis.”

She moved to him, boots crunching through the crystalline snow. Her cheeks were pink.

“I’m the ranking officer here,” she said. “If I want your opinion, soldier, I’ll ask for it.”

He knew that brisk tone, brooking no arguments. But there was something in her face — the harsh lines around her mouth, the circles beneath her eyes — that betrayed there was more to it.

She was worried. Not about the botched mission, not about the Niffs breathing down their necks. About  _ him. _

There was no time to rest; they were on their feet again, picking up a weary pace. It felt as if Cor’s legs were made of lead, the wet and cold weighing him down with each step. If the bloodloss didn’t get him, the cold would.

“Mon—”

She raised her fist. She was listening for something.

He pricked his ears; heard the gruff voices, the choked gurgle of an engine. 

Slowly she moved, gesturing for him to follow.

There were two cars, in tundra camo of white, black and gunmetal grey. Cor might have missed them if not for the watery sun glinting off their windshields.

“Driver at the wheel of the closest,” Monica murmured. “One… two at the far edge of the clearing.”

Cor placed them, eyes darting about the gaps in the trees.

“Is that all of ‘em?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Monica stooped, scooping up handfuls of snow and dusting them over her parka. Most of it slid away, but it stuck in places. She wasn’t hidden, but it was better than nothing.

“Stay here,” she said. “On my signal, break for the second car.”

_ “What?” _

“Trust me.”

She glanced towards him only once; when he gave her a shaky thumbs-up, she nodded and went off on her way.

Cor counted her paces: one-two-three-four, she broke the treeline. Six more, she was at the first car, hunkering low. Cor held his breath and watched her inch forward, so slowly she barely seemed to move at all.

Then she was gone — a flash of black on white.

She would’ve made it, if a fourth soldier hadn’t rounded the farthest car, a cigarette between his lips. Cor moved to shout, barely caught himself — of course Monica had seen him, was already pressed into the side of the car before her footprints could settle behind her.

He could picture the tension twisting her face, the steely concentration in her eyes.

She waited, choosing her moment, and just as the soldier rounded the car she struck. A whirlwind, she launched herself before he had noticed her.

A few sickening moments of struggle, and he stilled under the keen edge of her knife.

His gun was in her hands and she put it to good use — the driver’s window of the other car exploded, and the soldier within slumped forward, the horn blaring out underneath him.

“Now!”

It took too long for Cor’s body to respond, but he was off, sprinting. The door of the second car flung open and the engine roared to life.

The clearing was alive with yelling, with gunfire; Cor tuned it out until it was just the roar of his pulse in his ears, the pounding of his feet through the snow.

Bullets popped alarmingly close — he pushed on, until he was throwing himself into the car, until Monica was tearing away, leaving the soldiers in their wake.

* * *

“Never knew you two worked together,” Gladiolus remarks, taking a sip of his beer.

Beside him, Ignis polishes his glasses.

“Monica and the Marshal accompanied each other on a number of operations, I’m told.”

Prompto lights up. He’d been rapt through the whole thing.

“Tell us some stories!”

Monica shoots Cor a look.

“We could tell them about Operation Birthday Cake.”

Cor has the misfortune of taking a sip from his drink at that moment — it takes supreme willpower to keep from spitting it out.

“I’m not so sure His Majesty would want  _ that _ one out in the open.”


End file.
